It’s What You Do

Brain tumor. When I heard the words on Monday, I thought I’d faint. 

I didn’t faint, of course, because I was holding Karen’s hand. The doctor—a Manhattan neurologist whom I would never in a million years have gotten for Karen on my own—pushed the box of tissues across the table, and I didn’t take them.

“Wow,” Karen said. “That sucks.” Being strong, because Karen was strong. But she wasn’t going to have to be strong alone.

“No,” I said. “It doesn’t suck. It means that now we know what’s wrong, and we can fix it. Can’t we?” I pressed her hand harder, looked at the doctor, and willed the answer to be yes, as if my will would have any influence whatever on the outcome. 

“I can’t give you any guarantees,” he said. “That’s not how this works, and unfortunately, there’s no way of telling for sure until we’ve gone in there and biopsied it. But it’s showing all the signs of a meningioma, and in about 95% of cases, especially in patients as young as Karen, that’s a benign tumor. And as it happens, it’s in a good spot as these things go. Right here at the crown of Karen’s head.” He pointed to the circle of white on the MRI again, that damning space that shouldn’t have been there. The alien thing that had been pressing on her brain, blurring her vision, making her hurt, and making her sick. Growing for months, or even years, he’d said. “So, best case? We go on in there and take it out, and there’s not even any need for radiation, because we’re done. I’ve got some literature for you here, because I know it’s a lot to take in. You can go on and read these after you leave here. They should help answer some questions, and anything else you want to know, you can call my office and ask.”

He handed me a sheaf of handouts. About Brain Tumors, I read in big, damning black letters at the top, and I had to stop myself from putting a hand over my mouth. The lunch I’d barely been able to eat was threatening to come up again, and I had to swallow hard before I spoke again.

“Thank you,” I said. “We’ll do that.” Trying to make this be normal, even though it was nothing like normal. Trying not to think of our mother, the way I’d been trying not to do all along, and failing completely. 

Karen wasn’t our mother, though, and this wasn’t the same thing, because surely that would be too cruel. It wouldn’t be the same. It couldn’t be.

“And to answer your next question, the one I can tell is on the tip of your tongue—” the doctor said. “Yes, there are risks, of course. There are always risks. But I’m referring you to Dr. Feingold, and he’s pretty good. In fact—I’ll go out on a limb here and say that he’s the best.”

“What if it’s...something else?” I managed to ask. I didn’t want Karen to hear it, but at the same time, she had to hear it. She was a very bright girl. She knew what “probably benign” meant, almost as well as I did. “What do we do then? What’s the…” 

I wasn’t able to go on, but I didn’t need to. 

“If it’s malignant?” he asked. My mind recoiled from the word, but it wasn’t going to help Karen not to address it. “We cross that bridge if we come to it. Right now, we aren’t going there. There’s no point in thinking about it now. Wait until we know something.”

“Right,” I said. “Right.” I looked at Karen, at the pinched, white face, the pain and fear no amount of courage could hide, and spoke straight to her. “Whatever it is? It’s either going to kill you, or it’s an inconvenience. We both know it’s not going to kill you, so it’s going to be an inconvenience. You’re going to be in the hospital, and then you’re going to be out of it again. And then you’re going to be well.”  

So, no. I didn’t faint, or cry, or curl up into a ball of fear, because I couldn’t. Not then. And I didn’t do it when I told Hemi, either. 

He showed up, as always, when I was at my most vulnerable. The evening we got the news, he appeared with more Thai takeout. He’d remembered that this was the appointment day, because he’d been checking in with me. Because he’d paid for all the tests, had gotten Karen fast-tracked into the neurologist’s office, and had told me he’d be paying whatever wasn’t covered, whatever else she needed. There hadn’t been any argument possible, because there was no other choice. It wasn’t like I could pay it myself. He could get her the best, and there was no amount of pride, no amount of personal unhappiness that was worth sacrificing Karen. 

He’d sent Charles with the car to take us to every appointment, had kept the apartment filled with yellow roses for Karen, had sent takeout dinners on the days he hadn’t sent Debra over to stay with Karen so I could go in to work. He’d done everything, and I didn’t know why. I just did my best to keep up with work, knowing that Martine would like to fire me but that Hemi hadn’t allowed it, and tried not to think about what I owed him, and the fact that I’d never, ever be able to pay him back.

Tonight, he set the bag of food on the table and said, “So. What did you find out?”

“It’ll take a little while to tell you,” I said. “Do you want to...would you like to have dinner?”

I wasn’t sure why he’d come tonight, and I wasn’t up to asking. I’d done my best to keep my distance since we’d broken up. I was in such a dependent position already, being that way emotionally as well was more than I could take. To want to count on him and know he wasn’t able to be there for me—it would be one more straw, and the straws were heaped so very high already. It would break me, and I couldn’t afford to be broken. 

I didn’t say any of that, and neither did he. “Of course,” he said. “Thanks.” And he went to the cupboard for dishes.

In the end, Karen was the one who spoke, while I was still trying to figure out how to blurt it out in front of her without breaking down. Without showing her how scared I was. 

She stirred her chicken-noodle ginger soup, one of the few things she was able to keep down, lifted a spoonful, and let it fall back into the bowl again. “Good news is,” she said, “we know what I’ve got, and they can probably fix it. Bad news is, I bet it’s going to cost you a shitload more money. Well, that’s not the worst news. Worst news is, I could die. But probably not. I’ve got one of the good brain tumors. Well, probably. Right here,” she said, touching the top of her head. “They’re going to saw off the top of my skull and scoop that sucker right out. Pretty dramatic, huh?” 

Hemi saw right through her bravado. He didn’t give her sympathy, because he must have known that neither of us could take it. 

“Well, bugger,” he said. “And don’t say ‘shit.’”

“Why not?” she said. “You said ‘bugger.’”

“Not the same thing.”

“Sure it is. You’re an authority figure in my life. You’re supposed to be modeling appropriate behavior.” And then she winced, put a hand to her head, set down her spoon, and said, “Yeah. Well. Maybe I’ll go lie down. It’s this brain tumor and all.” 

She stood up, staggered, and grabbed the chair back, and I jumped up to help her, but Hemi was there first. His strong arm went around her, and he was supporting her to the bedroom as I followed behind. 

He left me to get her settled. and when I came out again, he was standing with that total stillness of his, looking out across the darkness that was the air shaft. He turned at the sound of the door closing and asked, “All right?”

“Yeah,” I said, and we sat down again and ate dinner, and I told him. 

I didn’t cry, and he didn’t hold me. Instead, he listened, asked questions, looked through the sheaf of handouts, and, I could tell, took more of his mental notes. Preparing to do some more research, probably, the same way I’d been doing all day. At least there’d be somebody I could talk to, somebody who cared about Karen, who understood what we were facing. I tried not to let that matter so much, and as always, I failed. 

He helped me do the dishes, too. We didn’t talk much, because there wasn’t much left to say, and no other topic that worked. When we’d finished, he hung up the dishtowel and said, “You’re shattered. I’ll go on home and let you get back to Karen.”

“Yeah. Thanks.” I walked him to the door, waited while he put on his coat, and said it again. “Thanks. For everything. I know that’s not enough, but—”

I had to stop, but he just said, “Yeh. Let me know about whatever appointments you have coming up, and I’ll send Charles to collect you. About the surgery date as well, once you have it. And give me the contact info so I can make the arrangements.”

To pay for it all, he didn’t say. 

I couldn’t thank him again, and I couldn’t ask him for anything else, not when he didn’t have it to give. Not when he’d done so much already. I couldn’t be another person with my hand out, telling him that what he was doing wasn’t enough.  

So all I said was, “Thanks. I’ll let you know.”

I didn’t go over to Hope’s the next night. I sent flowers, and I sent Debra. But I didn’t go myself, because I couldn’t stand to have my heart ripped out of my chest two nights in a row. Instead, I worked until seven, then worked out hard with Eugene in the hope that if I got myself tired enough, sleep would come. 

He had me holding a plank pose, timing me on his stopwatch, when he said it. “So. Debra says it’s bad with Karen. But not as bad as it could be.”

“Yeh,” I grunted. 

“Rough on both of them. Might be even rougher on Hope, watching her sister hurting that much, worrying about how it’s going to turn out.”

I looked up, but he was studying the watch. “How long?” I asked.

“Another minute. So what I want to know is, why ain’t you over there with the two of them?”

“What? You telling me—” I had to take a breath. “Debra didn’t fill you in? Don’t believe it.”

“What, that you broke up? Yep. She sure did. She’s told me a whole lot about Hope, too. Told me what I already know, that you’re a stone fool. Tell you something else, too. The woman I love’s in that kind of pain? I’m over there making it right between us, whatever I got to do. I’m not sitting over here telling myself I’m not going to crawl. And you’re done.”

I lowered myself to the floor, pushed up on my palms to stretch out my abs, and said, “Not the way it is.”

“Let me guess. I’m all wrong, ’cause you don’t love her at all. You don’t need nobody, strong guy like you, and you told her so. To get over there to be with her like she needs you, you’d have to tell her different. Can’t have that. Can’t be needin’ no woman, no sirree.” 

I stood up again and didn’t answer, and he sighed and said, “Get on the bike. Cool down.” 

I climbed on, grabbed the towel, wiped down my head, and started to pedal, and he said, “So. I get that about right?” 

I wasn’t going to answer, and then I did, because he was standing right there, the expression on his face exactly the same as my Koro’s. Same leathery, creased brown skin. Same seen-it-all eyes, seeing it all. 

“Maybe,” I said reluctantly. “You think I haven’t thought about this? Think I don’t want her? I want her. But I can’t be who she wants. She wants the...the whole thing, and I can’t do that.”

“Can’t do what?” He peered at me as if he were looking all the way into my brain, or, worse, into my heart, and I had the uncomfortable feeling that that wasn’t too far off. “Oh. I get it. You can’t do love. That about it?” 

He must have seen the answer, because he shook his head and laughed, showing off every missing tooth and not caring a bit. “Oh, man. How’d you get that messed up? Boy, what you think bein’ in love is, that you ain’t doin’ it?”

I pedaled faster, but there was no pedaling away, because he was still talking. Of course he was.

“Let’s take a look here,” he said. “You doing some things for her? Getting that doctor, paying all those bills, getting Debra in there, all that? Sending some flowers, too, I hear. Sending them dinner. That about cover it?” 

“I’m sacking Debra, so you know,” I said with a scowl. “Is there anything else you’d like to know that she hasn’t told you?”

“Yep, she’s a woman. Real interested in things. Cares about people, too, that way women do. Yeah, you’re right. Who needs it? So—why you doin’ all that?”

“Because they need the help, obviously. Because there’s nobody else.”

“Uh-huh. ’Cause Karen’s hurting, and Hope’s hurting, too, and you want to take some of that burden off her. But you don’t want to go over there, ’cause you don’t like spending time with her, I guess.”

“Are you almost done?” I asked.

“Nope. Just started. That’d be why you took her to Paris, flew her out to San Francisco. ’Cause you don’t want her around none.”

“No,” I said, “that would have been because I was sleeping with her.”

“Do that a lot, do you? Take a girl with you wherever you go? Miss her when you’re gone? That a regular thing for you? That why you took the two of ’em to the science museum, too? Doin’ the nasty in the dinosaur exhibit?”

I tried to think of an answer for that, but I couldn’t.

“Man,” Eugene said, “what you think you been doing all this time? Doesn’t matter what you call it. Love ain’t some word you say. It’s something you do, and you’re doing it. Hurts like hell, too, don’t it? Pretty damn scary, knowing you care that much?”

I’d stopped pedaling. I was done. I picked up the towel again, wiped my face on it, and said, “Maybe.”

“Feels weak,” he suggested. “And you decided a long time ago you wasn’t havin’ none of that. You’d be strong, don’t need nobody, then ain’t nobody can hurt you. Yep,” he said when I looked up, “thought so. All the young punks, they all think like that. Don’t realize that putting your whole self out there on the line’s about the bravest thing a person can do. And that when that woman’s there beside you, letting you know she’s got your back, and she always will? That’s not a weak place. That’s a rock you can stand on. But you know what’s even better than that?”

“No,” I said when he didn’t go on. “But you’re going to tell me.”

“It’s knowing you’re that for her. Knowing that when she’s got trouble, you’re the one she’s turning to. You want to feel strong? Try being that rock for her. So my question for you is, why ain’t you doin’ that? You’re taking care of her, yeah. But you ain’t bein’ there for her. She’s carrying that heavy load all by herself, and it’s killing you. So don’t you think you better haul ass over there, put your arms around her, let her cry a little, and let her know you got her?”

“But we—” I was having trouble getting my breath, and Eugene was grabbing his jacket, shoving his arms into it, picking up his gym bag. And stopping halfway to the door, turning, and finishing it.

“Yep,” he said. “You broke up, ’cause you told her you didn’t care, I bet. Hurt her all the way down to her heart, made her pull all the way back, and now you’re afraid she can’t love you no more. But I got news for you. Woman like that, who’s stepped up for her sister that way? That’s a woman who knows how to hang on. She don’t know how to quit. You get on over there, man up and put it on the line. You won’t do it right, but that’s OK, because ain’t a man out there who does. That’s what women were put on earth for, to set us straight. And ain’t they just willing to do it. Besides, she knows you ain’t perfect. She ain’t expecting you to be. She just wants you to try. So you go on over there tomorrow night and do it. See if you got it in your heart to sit by her side, watch TV with her, hold that pretty hand of hers and let her know she ain’t alone, and she don’t ever have to be alone again. And see how that makes you feel. Might just make you feel good. Might just make you feel like a man.”